


Gestures of Familiarity

by willowthorn



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spring in Hieron Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-18 14:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowthorn/pseuds/willowthorn
Summary: Dreams of the future are never so nice as the present moment, even when things are rough.





	1. Care

**Author's Note:**

> Please just take this from me. I have a lot of feelings and nothing else.

When Ephrim is young – not so young as to be a boy, but young enough to still not know the harshness of Winter – his cheeks burn with the heat of a holy forge. In fever, the future appears to him, one disorienting symbol at a time. Light, shadow, and more than anything else – heat. He knows he is of fire, but in that moment he feels as if he is iron, worked over by the hammer of his lord, sparks flying from him, only to sob out steam when he is quenched. 

He feels strong, calloused hands roll him to the side when his body is wracked with pain, his stomach protesting the slight amount of gruel he had managed to swallow. He knows the man this hands belong to, but in that moment he can’t place the name. He sees kind eyes made dark with worry, he sees pointed ears peaking out from wavy hair. He trusts that person, trusts them as they rub slow circles on his back until his shuddering subsides and he fades into a stuttering sleep. 

When he wakes, the man is gone, replaced by a more familiar face. He tries to remember more about that person, even as cooler, slimmer hands rest against his forehead and a hushed voice asks him a series of questions he can barely pay attention to. He does not ask if he had any visitors – he knows who is, what he is. They wouldn’t let someone unknown see him, not like this. So he stays still and patient, dreaming of gentle eyes and strong hands when there’s nothing more to occupy his mind. 

Time passes slowly. His fever breaks, he recovers, and those dreams begin to fade. He keeps himself busy, between one thing and another. He is a prince after all, and there would always be plenty to do. So he forgets the elf he would not know for years. He forgets the image of blood spilling out against the snow, steam rising in its wake. He forgets the image of flames licking at pastoral paintings. He forgets so many things, but he remembers the relief he felt in those first few seconds when he thought himself in the Forge after the confusion didn’t matter anymore. He remembers the smile in his God’s eyes. He remembers strong hands. Images slide into sensations, and his faith deepens.

There is winter, and then there is spring. He ties hard not to think about it, to throw himself into the demands of the University. He needs to stay strong, to have a firm, guiding hand – ha – because despite everything, despite all the leaders and the large names that have come to meet him in these halls, he feels like it is his duty. He is of fire, reborn in the forge, and if there was anyone that could keep the hearth burning, it should be him.

They talk in hushed, hurried voices when things are rough. Time is long, but it feels so short with the needs of hundreds pressing in on them throughout dusty corridors. They grow so much older in the first few months, scrambling to piece together hope out of snow. Throndir, thank goodness, is good at what he does. Ephrim watches as he sets his jaw, widens his stance, and does what he can. He knows how to pack snow in a way that insulates their store rooms, but the burst of spring growth and the buckling of ice takes a different set of skills to deal with. The garden is a blessing in these times. Cool spring water comes in the wake of winter, revealing broken boughs and ruined bulbs. But the garden is safe. The air is warm and damp, heavy and comforting. There are times he wants nothing more than to fall asleep there, the gentle glow of the plants in early evening rosy and restful. 

When the sickness first starts to show, he ignores it. Of course he does. He’ll rest later, when there is less to do. He doesn’t do enough as it is, everyone is trying so hard and they’re still struggling. But if leans against Throndir after they split a meal between them, words lapsing into comfortable silence, then it is only because he is refreshingly cool when Ephrim is running too hot. And if Throndir is gentle waking him up, the slightest hint of worry mixing with something else as he tells him to go rest, then it is just him being a good friend. The cough is a bit more concerning, but he deals with that too. He keeps a fold of dark cloth on him at all times, and makes sure there’s nothing staining his lips. He catches Throndir looking at him a few times, excusing himself if his gaze lingers a bit too long, just to check. Usually there’s nothing there, no matter how he pokes and prods at himself. He tries not to think too hard about it. 

Out of everything his hand gives him the most trouble. He can hide the twitching in his remaining fingers easily, and it gets easier by the day to write with his off hand. But he can’t quite hide the sudden fumbling of his words when the persistent ache becomes a sharp pain. He can’t hide how he tries to use his right hand less and less, even when it would be far easier for him. He tries so hard to maintain the gardens, to contribute physically in those early days. Most of the time, the weeds that grow are not too stubborn. He can dig in with a trowel, or the fingers of his good hand and ease the twisting roots out slowly. But as the months go on new weeds start to sprout. Their roots are thick cords that snap so easily, little welts of black oozing out from every break he makes. He needs more consistent pressure, he needs another hand to hold the trailing roots steady so the breaks can be minimized. So stubbornly, stupidly he reaches out with his right hand, and breathes through the spikes of pain. There’s no one here to see him anyway, and the garden needs to be weeded or the medicine will suffer. He needs to do this. He can’t stand to just sit on his ass any more than he already does. 

He calls it a day after only an hour, the pain moving from his arm to his head. He sits back on his ankles, eyes closed as he tries to let it pass, to keep the knots in his stomach from becoming a problem. He convinces himself that he’s fine to stand after just a few minutes, the world tipping dangerously as he tries to rise. 

There are hands on his arms, firm and sturdy, and a soft torso pressed against his own. It’s all he can do to hold on tight with his left hand, breathing harsh. He feels sick. He is sick. He tastes copper and acid, and one of those hands is pushing the hair out of his face, the other rubbing circles on his back. It feels familiar, and he hates it. He hates the hum of Throndir’s voice, all comfort and concern. He forces himself to breathe, to pull back. “I’m ok” he tries to say, the words coming out as a pained moan instead. 

“I got you buddy, take your time.” He can feel Throndir move to crouch beside him, Kodiak butting his head against Ephrim’s side with a low whine. There are long, quiet moments where all he wants to do is pull away further, wants to collapse into his own bloody vomit and let the garden overtake his body. Throndir doesn’t move, save for the gentle circling of his hand on Ephrim’s back. Kodiak moves before he does, slow and quiet as he gently picks up the bucket Ephrim had been using to water the flowers in his jaws, bringing it over to rest between them. “Thanks, boy.”  
One hand leaves as Kodiak comes to press against his side again, the gentle sound of water relaxing. When the hand returns, it is damp and cool against his forehead, his neck, his collar. Ephrim realises he’s been shaking only when it stops, his breathing slowing as he grounds himself in sensation. “There we go… You up for drinking something?” Throndir asks, and he hates the gentle tones less. He nods slowly, and it does not hurt. He drinks from the skin he’s offered, and his throat does not burn. 

“Thank you.” Ephrim tries this time, and his voice is weaker than he would have wanted, but it is his voice. “Thank you both.” He weaves his fingers through Kodiak’s thick fur, scratching lightly.  
“No problem, just… what happened?” 

“I… Not now? I’ll tell you, I promise, but I just.. not now.” He takes a shuddering breath, dragging his hand over his face. He can’t meet Throndir’s eyes, can’t bare to look at that serious expression right now. He can’t think too hard about how it shifts and softens in understanding, as if Throndir knew what it was to leave something unsaid out of pain, out of slow dread, out of necessity. 

“You know I’ll be here when you’re ready.” His hand is back again, resting over Ephrim’s own. And he knows that means so much more than he says. 

“I know. I.. it means a lot.” He feels himself leaning forward just slightly, eyes flicking up to meet Throndir’s own. He watches as he looks away, missing the weight of his hand . He misses the slight blush on Throndir’s cheeks as he dusts off his knees. 

“I’ll help you to your room, ok?”

“Ok.” Throndir’s hand keeps him steady, Kodiak an honor guard as they walk slowly to his rooms. Throndir doesn’t rush him, doesn’t fuss when Ephrim needs to take a break, leaning against him or the wall until the aftershocks of pain fade to a more manageable level. They talk a little, mostly local issues – how someone’s cow was pregnant, how the tilling of the fields was progressing, how Blue Jay is getting ever better with Throndir’s old bow. It is easy, and it is light, and in that moment it’s all he could ever want besides his bed and a mug of tea. 

He sits heavily in his bed once they get there, refusing to fully collapse. He breathes with his eyes closed, head tilted back, and misses the way Throndir looks at the line of his throat. It takes him far too long to lean forward, tugging at the braided cord holding his cloak in place. It falls away easily to join the layers of blankets and furs stolen from abandoned rooms. Troubling himself with the clasps of his shirt takes longer, his left hand still not quite practiced enough. Throndir draws closer, kneeling before Ephrim. 

“Here, let me help.” And Ephrim yields to him with a sigh, too tired to protest. He only stops him when it comes to his gloves, a gentle touch is all that is needed. Throndir looks to him, their faces close. 

“Do you… Should I stay?” His voice is hushed, and in that moment Ephrim understands. 

“Yeah.” His hand comes to rest against Throndir’s cheek, thumb running lightly over a spatter of freckles. “I’d like that.”


	2. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small bit of nsfw this chapter. Please free to yell at me @wi11owthorn on twitter.

His dreams are a haze of colour, the sound of a forge burning across his torso. He shifts, flinching away from the light, from the darkness that burns. He feels cool hands against him, steady on his shoulders. He hears a low voice say “I’m here”, and he falls into powered snow under an old pine tree. He can see his breath rise in grey clouds, tainted by what’s inside of him. 

The trees are tall, the crunch of snow under his boots a dampened echo. There’s a hut spilling white smoke down the hill, filling up the sky until blue has to break through in sheets. He stumbles, and his hands sting as he tries to keep himself steady with painted elm.

There’s warm food waiting for him in the shelter of the cabin. He keeps on feeling the press of familiar hands on his arm, his shoulder. He once feels the press of lips against his cheek. He cannot see their face, but he cannot mistake the twinge in his gut, the ache in his chest. He’s peaceful, though, as if the touches are a matter of course. But the more he focuses, the less he can see who those hands are attached to, which is nothing but an annoyance. 

In the twilight, sudden in its glow, he is pressed against a chair, fingers skimming his jaw, his throat. His hands – both of them – reach across broad shoulders, and he feels the rush of cool water around him. There’s safety in drowning here, and the vault of the sky looks like so much stained glass. 

The sand gives way to waves, his lover pressed against his back. “You know I love you, I just can’t leave like this.” 

He watches as the sea builds walls, cool and a silver that glints gold. “So stay.” He turns, running his hand across freckles, taking in kind eyes. “You’ve been here since the beginning. I’ve missed you for years.”

They fall back, sea foam catching him, taking the place of his cloak. They sink, and he breathes deeply.

Throndir’s palms find purchase on his legs, Ephrim’s fingers twisting in the sheets as they breathe against eachother, gentle despite the dizzy desire for more that magnetizes their movements. Throndir’s body is a heavy comfort against him, a moan slipping from him as he kisses a line down Ephrim’s neck. It’s so easy to lay back, his tunic hiking up to expose the line of his stomach, Throndir’s broad hands trailing past the curve of his chest to rest cool against his hip. 

“This ok?” He mutters against his collar bone, thumb circling lower. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He shifts, pushing Throndir’s hand lower.

“I want to make you feel good. Let me?” He lays kisses against Ephrim’s collar, presses his thick fingers against the crotch of Ephrim’s pants. 

“Please.” He lifts his hips to help as his pants are pulled down, kisses peppered on his stomach as he’s teased through his underwear. He’s so warm, sunlight dripping honey-like around them. Tension he didn’t know he was holding eases as he focuses on the way Throndir circles his clit, the way his hands press into his thigh. He wants more. 

He wakes with his nose pressed into furs, a dull ache in his side and an uncomfortable damp between his thighs. He feels sweaty and sticky, the sheets around him the wrong kind of warm. A knock at the door startles him, his covers pulled against his chest as he sits straight up, hoping he doesn’t look as messy as he feels. 

“Come in.” 

“Hope you’re hungry!” Throndir nudges the door open, Kodiak trotting over to Ephrim as Throndir follows after with a tray in his hands. Ephrim relaxes, letting the sheets fall from his chest as he pets Kodiak’s big head. 

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to. Did you get some for yourself?” The tray sat across his lap was light but well balanced, eggs over cheese and toast with some fruit preserves to the side, a cup of warm tea a welcome sight to Ephrim’s throat. 

“Yeah, I ate earlier this morning. I told everyone that you’ll be mainly looking over some papers today, so you can take it easy.” Throndir sits at the edge of his bed, taking over playing with Kodiak while Ephrim picked at his food. 

“I appreciate it.” It’s so hard to focus on his food and not on the gentle smile Throndir has, the heat starting to pool again low in his gut. He’s distracted enough that he doesn’t notice Throndir moving until his hand is on his cheek, his finger sweeping gently over the corner of his mouth.

“You had some, um.. you had some yolk.” Throndir pulls his hand away slowly, too slowly to prevent the flush rising on their cheeks. 

“Maybe I should-“

“I – You don’t have to –“ Ephrim reaches out, turning Throndir’s face back to his own. “I didn’t mind. It was sweet.” They lock eyes for a moment, Throndir’s ears quivering even a he fumbles for something to say. 

“You should probably finish eating, you were really pale yesterday.” He pulls back, nervously pushing some of his curled hair behind his ear. The blush on his face had traveled, tinting even the tips of his long ears, Ephrim couldn’t help but notice. They lapse into silence for a moment, each of them waiting until the heat in their cheeks had faded enough that they could think straight. 

“Do you want to-“

“We probably sh-“

Throndir laughs lightly, looking to Ephrim to speak first. 

“We probably… shouldn’t. I mean, you have Red Jack and I,” he starts, unable to look up from his tea as Throndir’s shoulders slump. 

“Ephrim, listen I-“ he begins, shifting on the bed to face him more fully. “Red Jack and I are friends. Really good friends. And yeah, sometimes we mess around. But I care about you. I want to help, I want to see you happy. I understand maybe you don’t want to be involved with me if Red Jack and I keep messing around but –“ he breathes deeply, eyes earnest and bright against the dark flush of his skin, the nervous hesitation in his words. 

“Throndir, I’m dying.” 

“…What?”


End file.
